


She Has Her Thorns

by Illubuu



Series: A Red Dead Ruckus [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Action, Gen, Red Dead Online - Freeform, Saint Denis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illubuu/pseuds/Illubuu
Summary: Rosie has spent years trying to bring down the men that ruined her life, and the lives of countless other women. It has been a long time coming, but her plan is finally beginning to take on teeth - Josiah Hopkins, a Grandfather to the brothel chain that plagues Saint Denis, is having a party and Rosie is in attendance.And she plans to start things off with a flourish.
Series: A Red Dead Ruckus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967770
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	She Has Her Thorns

The Main Street of Saint Denis looks like something out of a fairy tale. The morning has brought with it flurries of snow that rest gently on the ground and roofs and trees. Rosie shivers under her thin poncho and tugs it closer around her shoulders. She pats the knife resting on her hip. The breeze isn’t too terrible, but there’s word that a blizzard is planning on passing through the area - a rarity for a place like Lemoyne - and most of the city has closed up early in anticipation. Rosie herself only has threadbare gloves and her blanket-made-poncho to withstand the cold, and she quickens her step to reach the Hopkins Estate.

Some houses have already put up their decorations for Christmas, though the date is still 3 weeks away. By then the snow will have melted and the Lemoyne returned to all its muggy glory, but it isn’t as if any of the houses were using real wreaths or poinsettias anyway.

Josiah Hopkins’ house happens to be one of those houses. Bells and garland and light galore adorn the front of the house. A Christmas Tree stands in every bay window in the house, putting it at five. There is so much light coming from the house Rosie can see the individual snowflakes as they drift down before her. As she draws closer, she can see the house is painted a bright green, with white shutters and a darker green roof. Smoke pours from the chimney and Rosie sighs in anticipation to warmth. 

“Welcome, ma’am,” the door greeter says. He looks chilly in his suit and tie. His scarf is wrapped up around his chin. “Ticket, please?”

Rosie startles a bit. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the invite, careful to keep her face neutral.

The greeter gives it barely a glance before he moves out of the way, pulling the large iron wrought gate with him. “Have a wonderful night.”

Rosie gives him a sharp nod, before shuffling quicker up the front porch and into the house.

The smell of baked bread hits her first and she breathes it in. Her cheeks warm and she brushes a few wild strands of hair from her face. The foyer of this place is larger than her childhood home. Pictures of old men and women line the walls, clearly in a desperate attempt to cover up the strangely patterned wallpaper behind them. Rosie pulls her gloves off and pockets them, before stripping off her poncho. By glancing at the other guests, she realizes she is severely underdressed.

“May I take that for you?”

Another server, clad in the same dark suit, extends a hand towards her.

Rosie nods and drops the poncho over his arms. He gives her a smile and disappears into a side room.

Music drifts in from another room and Rosie follows it. She doesn’t recognize it, but it certainly sounds like something you’d hear at a hoity-toity gathering like this. As she passes through the rooms, she wonders if the guests here know about Josiah and his business. Are they friends of his? Or were they simply looking to schmooze their way into the royal houses of the state of Lemoyne? Or perhaps both?

Rosie decides she doesn’t have time to consider the moralities of guests, especially in a place like this. She slips upstairs, feigning interest in the house. Perhaps she should’ve spoken to some people first, make it look like she had actually come to enjoy herself, but she’s anxious to get things into place. 

The upstairs has a fireplace of its own, of the same chimney as the one below. Doors line the walls, some opening into bedrooms and others opening onto the balcony that wraps around the house. There are fewer guests up here, as Rosie had hoped, and she trails her fingertips along the mounding of the wall. 

Locket had said that Josiah's bedroom was the only one with a set of double doors and Rosie has little issue finding it. She tries the handle and isn't too surprised to find it locked. Things were rarely that easy. 

She pulls out a small pin, quickly checking around her, then gets to work on the door. She bites her bottom lip, willing her hands to stay steady. She couldn’t afford to panic. She’d already passed the point of no return.

As if hearing her thoughts, the lock  _ clicks _ and Rosie doesn’t waste a second opening the door and slipping inside. She rests her head against the closed door and breathes out a small sigh.  _ Step one. _

Rosie turns back around to face the room and stopps. Her breath catches in her throat. 

The room is magnificent. So much so it barely looks like a bedroom at all. The bed looks large enough to hold five people comfortably, and a thin canopy of sheer fabric languidly stretches across the four posters. There are four dressers, each adorned with shimmering medals and jewelry. The lamps, turned low for the evening, are intricately detailed with summer scenes. Family portraits hanging on the far wall, beside a bookshelf so tall it had its own ladder.

Rosie breathes. A tightness grows in her gut. She stares at the paintings with disdain. How dare they be allowed to have such a life when they were the ones to steal her chance at something like this. Every bit of her body screams at her to tear them from the walls, to burn them and everything here, but instead she just balls up her fists and gets to work.

Her time on the streets has taught her that using your environment is key to survival. It isn’t a simple task, and Rosie has learned that the hard way. 

She starts with the dresser drawers, pulling out any and all articles of clothing, throwing them about the floor. She lays them out so that they touch the walls and are weasled under the bed. Then, she takes one of the low lit lanterns and starts pouring the oil in swirling patterns on top. It took three of them to adequately cover everything. The room reeks and Rosie glances nervously back at the door, hoping no one will investigate until she is long gone.

She sets the lantern back on the nightstand and wanders into the bathroom. There is a single lamp in here, unlit. Rosie stares at herself in the mirror for a while. Her red and black dress is woefully sad in comparison to the room around her. The gold leafed wallpaper seems to laugh at her.

Rosie tears her eyes away and instead takes the lamp, using its remaining oil to draw a line back towards the door. Then, she very unceremoniously knocks the final lantern to the ground in front of her.

The room goes up in an instant, a violent gush of air circling the room as the oil ignites into an inferno.

Rosie takes a single step back before slipping back out into the hallway. She can hear the fire crackle through the closed door and she hopes she’ll have time to begin step two before someone discovers the fire. She is on the clock. With a sudden rush of urgency, Rosie turns to start back downstairs when she bumps directly into someone.

“Oh goodness, I’m sorry I-” the voice starts. There is a pause. “Rosie?”

Rosie stumbles back, subconsciously stepping back towards the door. She turns her head back up and feels the color drain from her face. “A-anne?”

Anne hasn’t changed a cent in the year it had been since Rosie had last seen her. She still does her hair up in those loose curls that frame her small face. She still prefers greens and blues to any other color. Her shimmering party dress puts Rosie’s to shame. She turns her head to the side slightly, her curls falling into her face. She glances towards the bedroom door, then back to Rosie. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah,” Rosie stammers. She knows what Anne is thinking, suspicious but for all the wrong reasons. Rosie isn’t sure if it’s her imagination or not, but the door beside her suddenly feels warm. “I was trying to find the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Thomas Lee brought me along. He’s an awfully wonderful man.” Anne looks back towards the door. “Is Josiah’s room as lavish as the rumors say?”

Rosie’s gut tightens. “I’m... not sure, I didn’t get a good look.”

Anne smiles a knowing smile and winks. “I bet. Say, it wouldn’t hurt for me to take a peek, would it?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Aw, come now.” Anne steps closer and Rosie smells smoke. “They say he has this huge painting of a  _ nude woman. _ ”

This is the last conversation Rosie wants to be having right now. She takes a step forward, hoping to push Anne back. “I can assure you he does not.”

“Perhaps you just weren’t looking hard enough.”

“For a huge painting? Surely it would be the first thing I’d see.”

Anne smirks. “You could have been a little too... preoccupied to notice it.”

Rosie hides her shaking hands behind her back. “Well, why don’t we ask him ourselves?”

“Oh, little Rosie has grown into quite the woman, hm?” 

“You have no idea.”

Anne leans back, putting a hand to her chin. “Alright, this is a conversation I’d love to see.”

Rosie’s heart races in her chest. She moved towards the stairs, hearing Anne ramble about how Josiah’s reaction will be what makes her night. There’s no way in hell Rosie is actually going to do that at all, but she needs to move Anne and get to the garden as soon as possible. She desperately scans the rooms as she moves towards the banquet hall. Most of the guests she doesn’t recognize - why would she? Seems it was just her luck that she would run into the only one here that knew here.

“I think I saw Josiah over by the dance hall.”

Rosie groans. That is not where she needs to be. She looks towards the tables of food. “Perhaps we can get a snack first?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t...” Anne bemoans, but her eyes glance longingly at the trays of delicate pastries. “But I suppose a snack during such entertainment is only to be expected.”

“I agree!” Rosie all but pushes Anne into the table. Watching her drip down over the table to look at the assorted fruit desserts, Rosie slips back into the crowd and beelines for the kitchen. She has a general idea where it is, and slips in behind one of the waiters. She ducks behind a counter and counts to ten.

The kitchen is busy, hopefully enough so that they won’t notice another body slipping through them towards the pantry. Rosie grabs a platter just in case anyone asks any questions, weaving in and out around the carts and trays before she wordlessly opens the wooden pantry door labeled ‘Dry Storage’.

The door isn’t locked - why would it be - so Rosie has no problem entering the room.

At first glance, the room looks like any other rich man’s pantry. Shelves piled high to the ceiling with enough food to feed an army. It smells like burlap and flour. Rosie sets her platter on the ground and starts running her hands along the walls. She trusted her source, she had to, so even when the first two walls turn up nothing, she keeps searching.

Finally, her hands fall upon a door latch, hidden just behind a shelf. She shoves the shelf out of the way quite easily, hinges she assumes, and starts to work on the lock.

Suddenly, behind her, a commotion erupts. There’s yelling and shouting and the sound of stampeding feet.

_ Shit. _ Rosie works faster, finally hearing the satisfying  _ click _ from the door and she shoves it open, racing down the stairs into the darkness. 

At first, she sees nothing. Hears nothing. The hidden basement smells like mildew and sweat and, for a moment, Rosie worries she has the wrong place. But as her eyes and ears adjust, she sees a candle faintly flicker on the far side of the room. And she begins to hear sniffling, crying.

Five women lay curled up around each other in the back corner farthest away from Rosie. They duck their heads down as she approaches.

“It’s okay,” Rosie starts. She extends her hands. “I’m here to get you out.”

The women don’t move. Only one raises their head to look at her, the others stay silent. 

“Please, we don’t have much time.” Rosie risks another step forward. 

One voice asks, “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Come,” Rosie says, reaching out. “Come on.”

It is a slow process, but the first of the women pulls herself to her feet. She’s dressed in rags and has clear bruises covering her arms and feet. She’s unsteady and takes a moment to find her balance. She starts to help the others.

Rosie sympathizes with them. She knows she is in no place to rush them, but with the sounds of thundering steps above them, she knows it’s only a matter of time. She holds the elbow of the woman nearest her and gently guides them towards the stairs.

“How did you know we were here?”

“A little birdie.”

One of the women laughs. “Well, give that little birdie my thanks.”

“I will be sure to.” Rosie takes up the front, gently urging the women forwards. She is just about to reach the top of the stairs when a shadow falls over her. She hears a short gasp, and then an “Oi!”

A man, some guardsman or party guest of God knows who, stands at the top of the stairs, glowering. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be down here.”

Rosie charges the man, not wasting a second slamming him into the wall. She punches him, missing his cheek and hitting his jaw instead.

The man recoils and crumples into the boxes, taking a wild hit and landing one on Rosie’s ear.

There is a vase just within Rosie’s reach and she grabs it. She cracks it over the man’s skull and backs away, taking his soft moans as proof enough that he won’t be getting up again.

Rosie returns her gaze to the women, seeing them hanging off each other in fear. She offers them a hand and a smile. She can smell the smoke more now. They had to move. “Come on.”

The women are more eager to leave this time, scuttling up the stairs into the empty kitchen. They follow closely behind Rosie as she dodges passed the dropped platters and food that litter the floor. She can see the tendrils of smoke beginning to seep into the kitchen.

“There’s a fire?” One of the women asks.

Rosie doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes a sharp turn towards the front door. She makes it to the foyer before she skitters to a stop.

Josiah is standing there, shouting angrily to his staff. “Well get some fucking water, then! Do you have any idea what this place has in it? What it’s all worth?”

Rosie is about to turn tail when Anne’s voice comes screeching over Josiah’s shouting and pierces her heart direct.

“There she is!”

Rosie meets Josiah’s eyes for just a second and she has the split second desire to charge at him, wrap her hands around his neck, and strangle the life from him. But then his eyes leave hers to see the women behind her and Rosie remembers why she’s here. They are her priority.

“Rosie! I saw her!”

Josiah’s stare turns deadly. “Fetch them!”

Nearly running into the women behind her, Rosie turns on a dime and races for the back porch. Her heart beats fast as she weaves through the crowd. There are people gathered around the back door, huddled in confusion.

“What’s going on?”

“Did the cook burn something?”

“Let me out, damn you!”

Rosie cannot see what is at the backdoor, only that no one is moving. No one is getting out. She turns back to the kitchen, fumbling with a window lock. “Get to the fence,” she says, to none of the women in particular. “Jump it, find the river, and follow it.”

“What then?”

“Hide. Find a shack. Make a fire. I’ll find you.”

There’s a bit of mumbling that Rosie reads as indecision, but it’s then that she finally is able to pry the window open. A cold wind runs past her face. She points. “Go.”

There is little hesitation then. 

Rosie watches each of the women drop into the grass before she moves to follow them. Her foot barely touches the windowsill when something grips her collar and flings her back into the room.

Her breath catches and she lands hard on her back. She scrambles to get herself upright, but strong hands force her hands above her head and a heavy weight settles on her chest. 

“I don’t think so.”

Rosie bucks. The determined strength she'd had earlier with the man on the stairs has dissolved to pure panic. She struggles, feeling no freer than before.

The man leers at her. It isn't Josiah, as she had initially feared. He is missing so many teeth that even as he grimaces with a clenched jaw, she can feel his rancid breath on her face.

"Tsk tsk, little lady."

Rosie looks around for something,  _ anything _ . Her hair is inches from a pile of what were once pastries, now strewn across the floor. There are pots and pans but nothing she could grab even if her hands were free. So, Rosie returns her gaze to the man, hockers a loonies, and spits.

The man recoils. "Ah ya nasty bitch-"

The distraction is enough for Rosie to lift her arms up and hit the man over the head with his own hands. She topples him over, grabbing a pot from the floor and flinging it at the window. 

The sound of glass shattering fills the air, mingling with the smoke that has now begun to make a more threatening appearance.

Rosie covers her face, runs for the broken window, and jumps.

The air is icy and unrelenting, but thankfully, the bushes and grass are soft, so her landing isn't bad. She can feel the sharp sting of the cuts on her face and arms, but she pays them no mind. The cold helps numb them.

She jumps the fence, tearing her dress in the process, and races for the river. She doesn't see the women and her heart twists. Rosie sighs. She takes only one look back.

The entire left half of the house is nothing but flames. They curl up and around, licking at the roof and melting the light snowfall. They fill the sky with brilliant orange flashes. The brighter colors contrast against the darker smoke that spills into the sky. There are distant sirens, the whinneying of frightened horses, the shouting of angry men.. Part of her is proud, to see such destruction brought to those who deserve it.

Another part worries what will happen when she's caught.

"If," Rosie corrects herself.  _ If they catch me. _ She shakes the heavy doubt from her mind, pulling at the tear in her dress and instead choosing to focus on lamenting that. This dress was expensive.

She goes to pull her poncho tighter, only then remembering it was still in the house. She shivers and starts walking along the banks, careful to watch those on the road ahead. She would need to find shelter. The  _ women _ would need to find shelter.

Rosie cannot see their footprints in the dark, so she just keeps walking. If they had followed her instructions, they would find each other. They had to.

The city of Saint Denis is never a quiet place. It is always full of sound and energy and life. So it is strange that there is no sound this night. Only the howling of the winter wind and the distant, very faint crackle of fire.

  
  



End file.
